Then he gave form to the thought which had been haunting them both.
"What about our friend Sir Timothy Brast ?" he enquired.

"Do you believe now that he was pulling our legs ?" Wilmore dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.

It was a chilly evening, but there were drops of perspiration still standing there.
"Francis," he confessed, "it's horrible! I don't think realism like this attracts me.

It's horrible! What are we going to do ?" "Nothing for the present," was the brief reply.

"If we were to tell our story, we should only be laughed at.